


Filemot

by grayglube



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5741209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He grins and it's like he's watering a garden he's grown inside her head where only poison grows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filemot

**Author's Note:**

> Just cross-posting from FFN wrote this in 2013

His hand over her mouth, fingers leashing her wrist and dragging her along, thigh pressed up hard against her underwear encouraging her to rub herself on it, things she'd been dreaming of. Someone's breath on her throat, humid heat while a tongue pressed against her skin under the jaw, lips catching on the backing to her earing while hissing filth about how hard his dick was and asking her if she could feel it.

It's a mental stammer she can't push out, just the tho-tho-thought has a heartbeat that isn't real that doesn't feel right starting under her sternum, her fingers twitch like electricity making a frog's spine spasm in a high-school biology lab.

In the aftermath and fallout from revelation and the send-off she thinks that maybe what she really wants is a fond farewell. Not that he deserves it and not because it will do her any good but because instead of plans she's making jokes with her cigarette smoke, thinking about the color red, wanting substantial and tangible revenge for what she's done to herself.

She sees him and it's worse knowing what making out and hands on her legs, under her dress but over her stockings feels like. It always makes her sloppy wet, still amazing to her somehow, still new and exciting to know that turned on enough to come isn't as far as the scale is numbered.

There's a fantasy of him hurting her that works especially well, she can think for hours. Cemetery monument guardian still but throbbing wildly under her cotton underpants.

She'll be smoking and let her hand hang, ash falling off onto the floor, eyes closing like marbles rolling heavy across the floor and down a crack to disappear forever, temporary abandonment and enjoying the dark behind her eyelids, stuck on a coil of want, an imagined tape reel of the feeling she'd get if blood flooded his bullet ridden chest in contrast to the bullet proof-ness of SWAT team vest and came down like hot ribbons on her skin, the movie reel medium of a snuff film, red and warm and ruining the sheets he'd come on during his lonely teenage years.

There would have been other boys, she knows that now, other boys who would have been alive who she could have loved, she would have been smart and sarcastic, she'd have learned how to be fucking hot and _happy_ , and she would have learned how to fuck in hot happy ways.

It's easy to wave off the _once_.

The, _it was only once_.

(So it shouldn't really count)

She can almost neglect it, disappointing or mediocre is the extra identifier needed if she were to ever describe that once as intense again. It might not have been either, just lackluster.

The sneaking suspicion that she would be a virgin again if she just killed herself takes the sharp edge off her disappointment, if she can get it back whenever she wants then losing it the first time under the pretense that he'd never raped her mother can be shaken into erasure like a long afternoon rainy day bout of brilliance on an etch-a-sketch.

He's stayed away from her.

It's uncomfortable to be around him when he cries like a little kid, when he tries to do things that she might have liked once, now card games seem pathetic and ditching school to lie next to him on her bed is a miserable prospect.

They can't do that now.

It was playing pretend.

It doesn't mesh, it does not **fit**.

"I wanted to be what you wanted so that I could be with you."

"Didn't you worry that it would get boring?"

"No. It's not that hard to lie."

She gave him a dirty look, what he says sounds awful and he'll realize in a moment, try to take it all back, make nice.

"I didn't lie about how I felt, never. Just the things you found out about anyway. I'm sorry. I just wanted something that was mine."

She wanted it too. Wanted someone to be hers.

And she knows that he still can be.

The aftermath surrender is spectacular, consequential fallout of boredom and death and abstinence. Her loneliness is punctuated by squalling children, Moira's craggy-or-cunty disposition, Hugo's leering drunkenness, knocked over ashtrays, and a growing irritation at isolation.

She misses the high-school rigmarole.

She misses grocery shopping with her mom after-school.

She misses shoulder tapping strangers to buy her cigarettes.

She misses making out and his hands wherever he wants them putting her wherever he wants and hickeys and helping him give her an orgasm.

He walks by the open doorway and stares at her as she lies supine on the spot where he's died. One night under the cold bathroom fluorescents she watches him pull a tampon out of a bloody hole of gorge on the ruin of his chest.

She contemplates her own malevolent perversity while she masturbates wildly.

* * *

He lets her take his hand and lattice their fingers in some semblance of connection. He'd let her do anything to him, she knows this.

Why, she figures it's an apology she can take from him that he's unable to give verbally or physically on his own. Forgiveness is a solitary sort of thing.

It's early in the morning and she doesn't sleep anymore. Can't or just won't try.

It's cold and his side, shoulder and hip mostly against her neck and waist because she's shorter than he is, is warm. He's a fire burning next to her that she doesn't want to look at because it would make her night blind.

She wants to take things from him.

Solace, comfort, safety, and offer nothing in return.

She wants to make him suffer so she works at him slowly, fingertip touches and silence. It escalates and evolves. She tells him to stay still and shut up, kisses his neck and presses fingerpads to his closed eyes.

There's something she's trying to do, hurt him enough so he hurts her worse maybe.

Lying next to him and letting him watch her face while she touches herself, always clothed and under the covers but the way her mouth moves and eyes close give her away as well as nudity or his face between her legs would.

It's better this way.

The way he looks at her, dehumanizing her until she's a grandiose sexual fantasy of his or a nightmare monster that won't leave him alone.

She wants to kiss his mouth, instead she finds someone else's. Moira's red one, Hayden's chapped one, Maria's pale one. Savoring delicate fleeting flavors, favors, fervors of arousal they each give her. Floating away before kisses turn to teeth and hands and doing things she's only ever done with him.

Moira's get her hot, Hayden's make her rough, and Maria's lead her down into depravity.

It's all just fuel, makes her want to put his cock in her mouth, shove fingers into his bullet holes, cut off his hand and see if it can still maneuver its way down into her underwear better than her own.

She does all three.

He is understandable confused.

She tells him his dick tastes a little dusty because of all the time he spends in the basement, he tells her she's lucky it doesn't taste like Hayden and they move right along to the second to-do on her little list. He grinds his teeth and she grinds on top of him. All that blood, he's right, there's just something about it. All over her hands, her breasts squelching against the sticky mess of his pectorals, her nipples catching on the edges of the burned skin.

His hand comes off under the cleaver she's wielding while he's leaning unawares against the kitchen counter one day.

It doesn't move at all and he calls her crazy when she tells him to try.

He dies in a puddle of red on the tile floor.

She holds onto the weight from the tip of his dick on her tongue, the way he tastes bitter salt sweat boy good, replays the way he watched her and his fumbly breath while she licked. It's something she didn't think she would like and she finds him lying by her side at night she'll so it again, a quick reaction to the allowance she gives him to touch her.

His head turns against her ankle, she puts her foot down on his hair and twists her chin to look at him smiling at the foot of the bed, lying at her feet with his converse close enough to see the dish water hue of his shoelaces.

The chapped lips catch on her tights and she squirms against the mattress, all shoulders and ass, at how hot his open mouth on her covered kneecap is.

It's easy from him to reach up her skirt and pull the elastic waist of her tights down, because she lets him, heart hopping under her sternum and a quick blood-rush from brain to cunt helping.

It's all kisses and clothes coming off.

He's maneuvering himself between her legs and she tells him that she wants to suck him, it looks like he's high, half-closed eyes and open mouth and chest heaving before they're even really naked, before they've touched each other.

It amazes her how easy it is for him to push her around, move her, grab her, it's jarring after a life of glancing touches and spare physical affection. He doesn't ever jam and maybe that's always been his problem, nothing makes him pause to reconsider. Except maybe some especially grisly sexual request of hers that's bound to come up once they end up on terms where they fuck and she won't feel like mutilating the skin he's touched, some request that she'll really demand him to do because she'll want to test his resolve.

They wiggle around on the bed like horny little high-school fiends, it's the middle of the day and he's spilling filth again, words like _pussy_ because boys like that word and _dick_ because they like names that sound like toys or baby talk, she likes hard C's, they sound violent.

But she wants to pretend they are skipping school and having fun while putting things in their mouths their parents would have an aneurysm over. She wants to be a kid pretending to be an adult, getting high on how his good his hard-on smells and the salt it tastes like, his inhale-exhale puffing between her legs and on the curve of her ass, the way he's French kissing her insides, trying to tongue her clit and half-missing the mark because he can't really see.

One big hand on the back of a knee tugging up her leg, she can feel the imprint of his ear on the inside of her thigh and she's trying hard to do a good job. It's too hot inside her sweater, the only thing he didn't get off of her and his bare chest is sticking to her midriff while they writhe like worms in puddle logged grass.

He's so sloppy with the way he licks at her, she's not much better herself.

It's hard to get him in her mouth and remember to keep going, the most she can do is to keep her tongue pressed tight to the long throbbing line of the vein on the underside. He's leaking into her mouth and when he comes his mouth opens wide over her and groans out an orgasm all over her cunt.

It ends up in her mouth and on her skin and she's sure there's a mess in her hair, but sex is supposed to be sticky and get everyone messy.

He goes lazy, little licks and small sucks between her thighs, his hair sticking to her naked skin.

"Sorry, didn't mean to come so fast."

He sits up and she presses her legs together, hands curled loose by her cheek, breathing in puffs. He tugs at her limbs and rolls her onto his chest, legs splayed and a nipple nudging his bottom lip the other already between two of his fingers.

She tilts and heaves her groin over the nudging bulges of his ribs berating him because she'd been so close, the edge is gone and she plateaued unbearably ready to just grind it without any help from him.

He's soft and even if he wasn't she doesn't quite want him inside of her like that, it takes forever to work up enough apathy to be able to do this much with him. One day she'll be able to do it but she doubts she'll be able to look at him, they'll have to do it from behind like dumb animals. Sometimes she thinks they are now.

A hand is sweeping up her slick spine and her sweater makes her whole back scratchy.

She crawls and claws up the mattress and his body and settles herself over his mouth while he's smiling at her.

He's saying something but she can't make it out as she presses her wet swollen parts closer to the tongue that's looking for them. She feels him laugh, a rumble on her cunt and then his palm between her thighs pushing up and back so he can speak.

"I said 'I love you'."

"I love you too."

She means it but she didn't mean to say it, didn't mean to gasp it, didn't mean to moan it. He just does shit to her that she doesn't want anyone else to, doesn't want anyone else's hands holding her ass while they eat her out, or anyone else's dick in her mouth, he's a monster, he's insane, he's too much but that's the problem, that's want she wants, those things turn her on when she's alone, when she's with him.

She wants to hate him, to know that they're never going to be more than escapes from boredom but it's love.

He knows she'll abandon him if she gets scared and she knows he'll kill her if he's scared of her leaving and they keep running around the same circle or repeating fate in a house that will never let them leave.

He knows her.

Knows that she likes marks all over her skin, likes having his arm around her legs and her cunt throbbing post orgasm on his warm solid shoulder, likes to kiss him after she shifts down closer to him on the bed because his mouth and chin are wet and it keeps her throbbing.

Still, he takes his time, lets her rest and then he'll ask if she's alright.

She is.

She sleeps and she dreams.

She dreams about him fucking her, looking down at her, putting her on her knees, bleeding all over her chest and back and neck and licking his name out all over the mess he'll leave on her skin in one way or another.

He's still next to her, naked now while she's still half-dressed when she comes back around.

"You said it back."

"You had your tongue in me."

"What if I was strangling you, would you say it then?"

"I wouldn't be able to say anything if I was being strangled."

He grins and it's like he's watering a garden he's grown inside her head where only poison grows.


End file.
